


lover's spit

by museme87



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mild Smut, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jaime and Brienne may have found love at the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lover's spit

**Author's Note:**

> While all my fic tends to take place in the ASOIAF-verse, Tormund's heart eyes for Brienne in GoT do get a mention because I find the whole crush rather hilarious. However, it's only a passing mention, and therefore not tagged. The title is from "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene, which--while having nothing to do with the scene itself--really fits the lazy, sexy mood for me that I envision for this scene. Listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8sGaLNMKwjo.

Some nights she all but thinks that the wild howls coming from outside belong to some new, great ice beast that they have yet to encounter instead of the wind. It is altogether otherworldly, like something from a wood witch’s tale, and Brienne has no stomach for it. Though she hides it well from the men, her Southron blood has shown itself more than once up here at the Wall. Even on days when the brothers remark on the small break from the bitter cold, Brienne can hardly tell the difference. Most nights she falls asleep thinking that her feet will never feel warm again. 

This is—by the grace of the Seven—not one of those nights. Her face feels almost numb from the heat of the fire in her small room. Men may say what they will about Jaime, but no one could deny that he made a fine fire. He claims it’s the wood, that some throw heat better than others. She does not know how true it is, but Brienne always feels warmer when he prepares it. And he does so often enough, ever since she remarked on his skill after a long watch in the middle of a bitter night. 

He finds other ways to keep her warm as well, she thinks, shifting in the pile of furs in front of the fire. His seed dries on her thighs, and it always comes as half of a surprise when the guilt does not follow. They’ve been at this too long for it to feel anything but familiar, and Jaime’s one-time playful jests of calling her “wife” after the men snidely began calling her “Lady Lannister” have settled into something more. It comes less frequently now, but she half-expects it every time he shudders against her, a half-curse half-prayer wrenched from his lips with his release. 

The memory of the last time has her biting back a small smile, her teeth sinking into her chapped lower lip. She is sweet on him, she knows. And he knows as much as well. They’ve not spoken of it, not put whatever this is into words, but she’s certain he’s felt the visceral shift between them as much as she has. And this is not the time. Not now. Not in the middle of a war. And they’ve been so foolish, caught off guard and unprepared. Once they had been in bed when the wights had arrived and had not known until they had heard the screams. She’d sworn it wouldn’t happen again and had kept that oath for all of a fortnight before Jaime had pulled her into his room and told her that enough was enough. 

She is thankful now that he had done so, though that night she had whispered insincere protests as his lips found her neck and fingers fumbled in her smallclothes. It was not wise, she had argued. Jaime had insisted that it was the only wise thing to do, here at the end of the world. Brienne is still not convinced it is _wise_ , but he is a comfort that she cannot yet deny herself. Sometimes it is only the delicate ache between her thighs that reminds her in this cold that she is different from those _things_. And she cannot deny that she urges Jaime on so she might feel that twinge for days after their bedding. 

Lying on her back, Brienne allows her hands to stray beneath her furs and slip between her legs. Her eyes flutter shut as she feels the sweet soreness there, and she sighs in near-contentment. _We are not yet dead,_ she thinks, pressing her fingers into sticky flesh to feel the pang once more. She wonders how much longer she might be able to say that of them both. 

She had no intention of… Not with _Jaime_. Brienne had known it would only be a matter of time before they would give into temptations of the flesh. She had burned too hotly for Jaime to hold onto her maidenhead in this icy wasteland. But back then she had not expected to love him so well. 

The sound of approaching feet draws her from her thoughts, and Brienne turns her head upon her pillow just as Jaime opens the door. She does not scramble to cover herself as she once had. Jaime had broken her of that as he had so much else, had worshipped at her alter so frequently and sung such praises that she was divested of her shame. Now she finds a certain thrill in lying boldly bare before him, almost demanding him to take sight of her. With a small, sad smile, Brienne thinks of how proud she—a woman who has little to be proud of—has grown in his arms. 

_Look at me_ , she demands with her eyes as he closes their door. _Jaime_. 

"Tormund sends his best," he says, all smirk and charm. 

Brienne can feel her cheeks burning, and she suddenly feels less bold. She has no idea what Jaime _thinks_ he saw, but he claims that Tormund had made eyes at her upon their arrival at the Wall. Ever since, he has been insufferable about it, making remarks on their relationship in Tormund's presence. Brienne thinks Jaime's insults will go too far one day, and the Seven help him when they do. 

"You shouldn't—"

"Hush." 

He joins her on the floor in their nest, still clothed from his journey through the castle. She feels his calloused fingers across her cheek and his hair tickling her brow before she tilts her lips to meet his. His nose is cold against her skin. She brings her hands from beneath the furs onto his cheeks to warm him as his tongue slips into her mouth. She swallows his contented sigh, shifting her legs as she feels herself come alive again at his touch. Jaime pulls away just so, kissing her wrist and then her palm. He breathes in deeply. 

"You smell of us." Another kiss to her sticky fingers. "I wasn't gone for that long." 

Before she can reply, he takes a finger into his mouth and sucks gently, his tongue lapping at the taste of them together. And, oh, she tries to stifle the gasp and moan that his tongue elicits from her, but her throat betrays her and yields to some awkward sigh of pleasure. At that, his eyes find her own. Once she had expected his gaze to be predatory or amused, back when they were only dancing around each other with _this_ lingering between them. It had surprised her when she had found a kindness there that she was not entirely certain he was capable of. Now though, she has come to expect it. Kindness, and something more that she dare not guess at. 

Slowly she withdraws her finger from his lips, and he moves his hand to cup her cheek. Her eyes close, and Brienne does not bother to stop her contented sigh. Let him know that she is a happy woman, for all that she can call herself one. 

His weight slips away from her, causing her eyes to open and search for him. Jaime tugs at his clothing, trying to shed them and even now fumbling just a little. As he slips his shirt over his head, Brienne unlaces his breeches enough so that he can easily slip them off. He's long since stopped berating her for treating him like an invalid and has come to accept her help for what it is. 

When he's divested of his breeches, he joins her beneath the furs and presents a bottle of wine. It does not appear to be the awful stuff that the Black Brothers drink, the flavor so poor that she does not even drink it watered down. This looks like something from the South. A bottle that has been in this castle for some time or else something that has come on one of the ships that sail to replenish their stocks. Brienne does not know how Jaime has managed to find it and does not care to ask. 

Jaime uncorks it, tossing the cork aside and taking a long swig of the stuff. He pauses for a moment as if to test whether it tastes alright or not, and the grin on his face tells Brienne that it passes muster. He extends the bottle to her, and she shakes her head. 

"I shouldn't." 

"Come, Brienne. Drink and be merry." 

"What have we to be merry about?" 

Jaime sighs, lying back on the furs with his wounded arm serving as a make-shift pillow for his head. His eyes flutter shut for all of a moment before he turns to look at her. 

"We are alive, aren't we? In this wasteland, that's half a miracle in itself. It's more than most have." 

She knows it's true. They've lost great numbers, and still the undead army visits them. Both she and Jaime should be long since dead, and Brienne can only guess that they must have done something to please the Seven to still be alive. What those acts were, she will never be certain and is not sure that either she or Jaime have done anything so remarkable to warrant these stolen hours. But who is she to second guess the Gods? 

Perhaps she takes a sip of the proffered drink to appease Jaime. Or maybe she does it to halt any thoughts of what's to come for them. Brienne thinks about it so often when she takes watch on the Wall, gazing out at the inky blackness, her eyes tricking her into seeing shadows that are not yet there. One day—one day _soon_ —they will catch up to her. She feels it deep in her gut, but she has not the heart to say so to Jaime. 

While she's momentarily lost in thought, Jaime takes the bottle from her and drinks deeply. It's only when she hears the bottle softly meet the floor that she realizes it. He looks thoughtful as well, though Brienne does not think he's preoccupied by death as she so often is. Shifting to lie on her side, Brienne waits patiently for Jaime to speak, knowing all too well that he does not long abide silence between them. As she reaches out to touch his shoulder, Jaime turns his head to meet her eyes. 

"When this war is over, I'm going back to the Rock. I want you to come with me." 

"Come with you?" 

"Aye, as my lady wife." 

Her tongue is suddenly thick in her mouth, unable to move just then, and so she finds his eyes and holds his gaze for a long moment. Their end will come long before the war's. And even if that weren't the case, such a future is impossible. There are too many players in the game, and none of them are like to give Jaime Casterly Rock. She will never be closer to being his lady wife than she is now, on this floor in this room at the end of the world. 

"This is all there will ever be for us," she says. 

It pains her to voice the words, more so than she ever thought it might. Brienne has never desired to be anyone's wife, but if she had to suffer it, she _could_ be glad with Jaime. He would have given her laughter and freedom. He would have given her love. 

"And I shall take it gladly, Brienne." He pauses, as if to feel the weight of the word on his tongue. " _Wife_." 

" _We_ should have never been anyway," she says to soothe them both. 

Jaime hums in agreement. "And yet we should have been so much more." 

Brienne leans over to kiss him softly, tenderly, in the way they have grown to kiss. The feel of his lips against hers, strong and supple, has her mind wandering to the fullness she feels inside her. She has never felt love before. Oh perhaps some version of it, to be sure. For Renly. For Catelyn. For Sansa. But she does not know what it is to look at a man and feel like a woman loved. Maybe this is it—this fullness, this happiness that threatens to make her smile against his lips. Maybe this is as close as she'll ever come.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me forever to finish this and post, but I'm happy to have shared it with y'all. Please let me know what you think!


End file.
